


Child of Peacetime

by BoPeepWithNoSheep



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Adoption, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kidfic, Learning to Parent, Minerva adopts a bug baby, Minerva grapples with being the last of her kind, Minerva is an Endling, Single Mom Minerva, Single Parents, and whether or not raising the last of her enemies' kind is a betrayal, yall should just expect these at this point honestly I have a brand and a problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23889661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoPeepWithNoSheep/pseuds/BoPeepWithNoSheep
Summary: Minerva has been alone for a very long time, an unspeakable amount of time. When this changes very suddenly she must deal with the emotional turmoil that comes with both potential parenthood and potential betrayal to the memory of her people.
Relationships: Minerva & Beacon, Minerva & Duck Newton, Minerva & Original Child Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes, this is another kidfic! Yes, I do have a problem! No, I do not take criticism on my Brand. I'd like to give a minor heads up for Minerva having a moment of having a Bad Intrusive Thought about the baby due to a minor PTSD flashback if you want to skip it then just skip the paragraph that starts with "She knows those eyes"

It isn’t the fact that it’s such an odd sound that catches Minerva’s attention. There are plenty of things that one's brain can delude them into believing they’ve heard after such a long period of isolation. Really, it’s the fact that it’s muffled that makes her think twice.

When her mind is playing tricks on itself, when her ears are straining in the eerie silence for a single sound, then things are always _crystal_ clear. The shrill, relentless whine filling the air has been going on for several minutes now but it’s a stifled thing. Minerva is on her feet quickly, sword carefully drawn and prepared. An action to soothe petty paranoia, because she is painfully alone. It’s likely just another machine left to rust away breaking under years of neglect and rebelling against the silence in its death throes.

But Minerva hasn’t survived this long without a less than a healthy amount of paranoia so the sword remains aloft, sharp blade exposed to the cool morning air.

She wanders for nearly an hour if the way the suns have sailed through the sky is a good indication before she finally stumbles upon it. Instead of one of _her_ people’s abandoned weapons, it’s the wrecked hull of one of the insectoids battle pods. It makes Minerva grimace, she remembers those had been a prime target during the war, as they often ferried high ranking generals from battle to battle. 

However, it doesn’t seem to be the pod itself causing the strange noise. Minerva circles the behemoth warily, sword at the ready, perhaps it is some sort of automated defense system triggered by the decay of the oddly organic vehicle. Finally, just as Minerva is beginning to believe she might never find the source of the incessant noise she nearly trips on a small, wax-like capsule half-buried in the dirt.

That would explain the muffled sound.

It takes her a bit of time to wrestle the husk out of the ground, more than she would have considered. She nearly abandons the endeavor twice but the noise changes any time her hands press too firmly against the waxen shell. It piques her curiosity. She has nothing to do for several hours, her meeting with Duck Newton isn’t until the evening and this is something to break the dreadful monotony.

So she pokes and prods the little thing out of the mulch and examines it with cautious but curious hands. It looks like one of the sustenance stasis pods she’s found before, but more elaborate. Minerva is never against scavenging herself a more varied diet, considering she’s lived off rations for so long.

It startles her, the sudden soft release of air and the whir of internal machinery. She nearly drops the bundle but keeps her grip steady enough to carefully place the thing back on the ground. Mechanisms whirr as slowly the topside of the container splits in two and the halves slowly slide down revealing some sort of fleshy white orb. Minerva stares, for a moment completely baffled by the core of what she had thought was surely some sort of weapon but perhaps it is a rations kit of some sort? Better to check it over with something that isn’t her own hand, she thinks as she pulls out a spare dagger. However, before she can poke at the strange thing it moves.

Even with years of training years of isolation trumps the immediate fear response with sheer awe. The thing-- _the creature_ \--wriggles and slowly turns over in it’s casing. Minerva’s grip loosens and her knife drops to the floor as she watches the tiny thing, little arms flailing wildly at the touch of fresh air on it’s skin. There’s something like a rock in her throat, pushing up like it wants out. Minerva staggers, falling to her knees as she stares and stares and _stares_.

Alive.

Something else is _alive_.

There’s a noise that isn’t the creature but surely it can’t be her either, high and keening and wet with weakness. It feels like she’s in a haze like a fog has overtaken her brain and a storm roils in her esophagus and her tear ducts. The only thing keeping them at bay is that keening noise releasing the pressure like a tea kettle. Her hands shake, blade is forgotten in the dirt below and carefully, so very carefully she reaches out.

The creature is soft and smooth, battle-scarred fingers meeting unblemished pudgy flesh. It’s almost a reverent touch—Because hasn’t Minerva’s touch only ever brought devastation? She shouldn’t touch this creature—it could be dangerous but her hands move before her brain truly processes what’s going on.

Soft. Warm. Alive.

Foreign things, forgotten things, things Minerva doesn’t deserve.

It’s eyes, wide and milky white, blink up at Minerva. Large compound eyes, almost comically large for the little things face. Or rather, it might be comical if they did not make Minerva’s blood run cold.

She knows those eyes, enemies' eyes. Smaller and paler than she ever recalls seeing but the shape and build are terribly, horribly distinctive. In her mind’s eye, she wrenches herself away, grabs for the dagger at the ground and—

And Minerva cannot hold back the tears because of course, this is her punishment. Her fingers linger, drifting up towards the creature's face as the dagger in the dirt stares up at her gleaming with accusations. The little thing tilts it’s face towards her touch, mandibles chatter out some imperceptible babble. A small spiny appendage reaches out and just barely hooks itself around Minerva’s wrist.

Minerva remembers seeing kinfolk ripped to shreds by powerful arms and bloodied spines yet this little arm fills her with such warmth that this time she cannot bite back her sob. Her own limbs shake as slowly she reaches around the creature, making sure her hold is secure as she lifts the little thing from—from its bassinet.

“You are a _terrible_ creature,” she gasps softly, voice hoarse and throat aching, “But so am I, I suppose.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first meal.

There is a learning curve to taking the creature along with her that Minerva hadn't truly expected when she’d made the rash decision to do so. She had been a warrior afterall, not a caretaker of the youths. The closest she’d ever gotten had been teaching and even then she’d never worked with the youngest, only those nearly ready to attempt their ceremonial rites to be recognized as fully grown warriors. They met younger students in passing, and occasionally particularly prodigious young warriors would be funneled into her classes near the end of the war when things had been desperate. However, she had still always worked with _children_ , not infants.

Figuring out what to feed it— _them_ —is one of the first things she realizes is absolutely essential to learn.

“Well, Little Larvae, I suppose we are at an impasse.”

Minerva has them propped up in their pram—she’d gone back for it after an unsuccessful attempt to fashion one herself. Her hands are placed firmly on her hips as she stares down at the little one. The warrior thinks that her stance would be very intimidating if someone besides a baby were here to witness it.

Alas, her panache is wasted upon the youth.

Considering waste, she finds herself having to bite back curses as the little one rejects ration after ration she attempts to ply them with. She’s tried nearly everything at her disposal but if it isn’t too hard for the little one to chew it—they—have no interest at all. She supposes that military rations she’s been subsiding off aren’t terribly appetizing, to begin with, she’s just been numbed to it for decades.

It poses a problem, besides the fact that Minerva very much ignores the little voice in the back of her mind that constantly whispers about fitting punishments and unclaimed justice. If the little larvae will not eat then she cannot sustain them. If she cannot sustain them they will die and—and she will be alone.

So she tries again.

“Sustenance Experiment, twelfth attempt, variation of attempt number five. The young one appears to respond positively to dried fruits however does not yet possess the bite force to ingest them. Unsurprising given the subject’s youth but inconvenient.” Minerva paces her commandeered mess hall kitchen turned lab, gathering her necessary ingredients. The larvae’s eyes follow her as she moves, attentive and wriggling it’s small arms towards her. Without truly thinking Minerva passes the child a large piece of dried fruit. 

Even if they are incapable of ingesting the food it has proven to be a favored chew toy. The only superior one, by her own observations at least, appears to be her own fingers. She’s been doing her best to gently discourage such behavior, the mandibles might be soft and weak now but eventually, they’ll be sharp enough to pierce armor. Still when she feels a light nibbling sensation against her fingertips as she simply passes along the new soother. 

Minerva settles her ingredients on the counter and prepares her pot of water, “Current attempt composition contains approximately one and a half liters water to seven hundred and thirty-seven grams of fruit.”

Minerva is painfully out of practice in terms of crafting preserves. The last time she remembers doing so was with her fathers when she was just a little one herself. She’d thought herself too mature for the practice once she’d started martial training. Now she cannot help but wish she had been in slightly less of a hurry to grow up. Preserving fruit is such a time-intensive process and she could have stood to have spent more time with her family when she’d had the chance.

It takes her nearly two and a half hours before the process is finished, letting the end product cool enough to taste test. Minerva so rarely takes the time to make things like this, just a day ago it would have felt like a waste. A waste of time, a waste of her reserves, a waste of the emotions such a nostalgic act would instill in her but—

It’s _necessary_. She cannot allow for the child to starve, she won’t let herself dwell in guilt for tasting something so indulgent when she has so much to do. She needs to scavenge for some sort of cart later, so that she may carry the child and it’s pram with her more easily when she inevitably needs to travel. She needs to prepare herself for the inevitable push towards the next bunker once supplies run low here. She isn’t alone anymore, but there is a warring battle in her heart whether of not her people would consider their careful stockpiling efforts in vain if they were used to feed an enemy.

There is a voice in her head that sounds incredibly similar to her childhood sword instructor who _screams_ that she should feel more shame for what she’s doing. For bringing an enemy into one of their sanctuaries, for not cutting it down before it can grow older and destroy her.

They will want revenge, won’t they? When they are grown and realize that it is her fault that they have no family, no hive nor home planet. Or will they feel like she does, desperate enough for companionship on this lonely open coffin of a world that they will ignore the truth? Can a family consist of two endlings?

A family. Such a selfish thing to even begin to imagine when she has not fulfilled her self-imposed purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will ping pong between fluff and angst but let's be real that's what people come to my fics for.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the ducknerva server for encouraging my shenanigans, this dumb idea would not have blossomed without the help of the canoe.


End file.
